‘That’s correct.’
‘I’d better be getting back,’ said Adrian, beginning to feel somewhat superfluous to the conversation, almost as if he were being deliberately excluded.
He was dozing, sitting bolt upright in his seat, his chin resting on his chest, a work file on his lap, when the plane ducked and draked along the wet runway at Leonardo da Vinci International Airport. There was an hour’s wait before the flight continued to London. Anne and Mujtabaa stayed on board, while Adrian left the plane. In the terminal he bought some perfume for Judith and a leather writing-case for Emma. He toyed with the idea of buying Mujtabaa a photograph of the Pope, or one of the little plastic replicas of a Michelangelo statue, Moses or David, almost as a bit of a joke, but at the last minute decided against it. He considered buying him a leather jacket, but thought even that might not be appreciated.
Soon after seven, on a sublime, still, summer’s evening, they soared smoothly into the sky and headed for London. The rain clouds had scattered to the horizon, and a brilliant orange sky now stretched like a theatre backdrop behind the seven hills. The Eternal City was bathed in an appropriately ethereal glow. Flying up the coast to France, it struck Adrian very forcefully, and for the first time, that his dream was about to be realized. He was almost home.
Two hours later they were flying low above the wide, translucent ribbon of the Thames. The sky was becoming dark. Adrian looked out of the window at the sights of London unravelling beneath them. He doubted Mujtabaa would be interested in seeing them, and was probably, as always, staring impassively to the front, seemingly oblivious of everything that was happening around him. Adrian was concerned by his lack of movement, but also by his separateness. And he was frustrated by the fact that he was only able to speak to the Ethiopian through Anne.
Right on schedule, they were taxiing towards Terminal 3.
Being one of the first to disembark, Adrian waited for Anne and Mujtabaa at the end of the airbridge. The nurse had asked for a wheelchair for Mujtabaa, so she was the last off the plane. It was being pushed by a flight attendant. His perspiring face was directly above his seated compatriot, but they weren’t talking. Mujtabaa sat, looking at no one, as silent and unresponsive as a piece of baggage.
‘I thought it better to avoid the crush,’ Anne said by way of explanation.
The flight attendant took them to Immigration and Passport Control, chatting all the time, as if that was what was expected of him. He left them in the queue, solemnly turning round and waving as he walked back the way they’d come. The immigration officer barely looked at Anne or Adrian’s passports, and stamped Mujtabaa’s visa after only the quickest of glances in his direction. Before handing it back to Adrian, he said, ‘What’s wrong with him?’ He scarcely sounded interested in a reply.
‘You mean, why is he in a wheelchair?’ The officer nodded. ‘He’s from an area of famine, and has lost a lot of weight.’ They were waved through with a world-weary flick of the hand.
They collected their luggage from the carousel along with Mujtabaa’s jile, which had travelled as a ‘special package’ in the hold of the plane, from a desk nearby. At Customs, they walked through the Nothing to Declare gate. They were stopped.
‘Has this young man any baggage?’ The customs officer was looking at Mujtabaa.
‘No,’ said Adrian.
‘No hand luggage, sir?’
‘No.’
‘A toothbrush, maybe?’ he asked frowning.
‘Not even a toothbrush. Never used one, doesn’t own one, probably never seen one.’
The customs officer stared at them. ‘What would Colgate Palmolive have to say about that?’ He half smiled, revealing his own rather forlorn set of nicotine-stained teeth, then indicated they should wait. He walked away to consult a colleague.
‘What’s the problem now, for heaven’s sake?’
‘I’m sure everything’s fine, Adrian. It’s probably because they’ve never come across anyone without any luggage before.’ She lay a protective hand on Mujtabaa’s arm.
The two customs officers were staring at them from an inspection table further up the hall. A minute later they walked over. The new officer, an overweight, stern-faced woman and, from her demeanour, the more senior of the two, asked: ‘What did you say was wrong with your friend?’
‘I didn’t. I told one of your colleagues at Passport Control that there’s nothing wrong with him, apart from the fact he’s hungry. He’s been in an area of famine, but he’s not ill.’
‘Ethiopia, is that where he’s from?’
‘Yes. I work for the charity Africa Assist, and this man is helping us raise money for his people, for famine relief.’
The two officers, expressionless and silent, regarded Mujtabaa as if he were a dead fish washed up on a beach and they were uncertain whether to throw him back in the water or simply walk away.
‘Is there a problem?’ Adrian asked.
The woman looked at him, almost with reluctance. ‘Is there? You tell me, sir.’
‘I don’t believe there is.’
‘Can he stand?’ the woman’s colleague asked.
Adrian’s heart sank. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘Will you ask him to stand for me, please.’
Anne spoke to Mujtabaa, but he didn’t stir. She took both of his hands and gently attempted to pull him to his feet. She whispered to him, but his head remained sunk on his chest. The customs officers watched dispassionately, as if they had little interest in the outcome of their request. Adrian stepped forward. ‘Mujtabaa, let’s just give you a bit of a hand up.’ He grasped the young man under one of his arms, and with the nurse on his other side, they lifted him gently out of the wheelchair. He stood between them like a rag doll. Adrian felt he and Anne could have been army privates supporting a friend at an officer’s morning inspection, trying to hide the fact that he was drunk and incapable from the night before.
They stood there for what seemed an interminable time. Finally, the female customs officer said, ‘He can sit down again.’
Thank God, Adrian thought. But no sooner had they lowered Mujtabaa into the wheelchair than the woman said: ‘If you’d follow me, please.’ She led them to a small room at the side of the Customs Hall.
‘Can you tell me what’s happening?’
‘Yes, sir. Because of where he’s come from, I’d like one of our medical officers to look at your friend.’ She picked up the phone and dialled a number. While she waited for someone to answer, she addressed Adrian: ‘There’s a Medical Centre here at Heathrow, or we can take him to Hillingdon Hospital.’
‘I really don’t think that’s necessary.’
‘He doesn’t look well to me, sir. I’ll ask someone from the Medical Centre to pop over.’
‘He’s fine–’ His protests were cut short by the woman explaining the situation to someone on the other end of the line. When she put the receiver down, she addressed Anne rather than Adrian: ‘It’s regulations, you understand. We have to be careful. There’s been a lot of publicity about the famines in Africa.’
They sat on chairs by the door. The customs officer sat behind a desk and stared at the Ethiopian. No one spoke. Adrian appreciated that, even though he’d anticipated the possibility of such a ruinous turn of events, he was confounded by it now that it had happened. Although it was too late to argue with the customs officer, he’d have to make sure he pushed his case at the Medical Centre. He was so close to realizing his idea; he couldn’t let it slip through his fingers at this late stage, after they’d come so far. He glanced at Mujtabaa. It was possibly a stroke of luck that no one was able to talk to